


Devil's Tears

by psychosomatic86



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Self Harm, Suicide, implied suicide, sadfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 11:50:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5927320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychosomatic86/pseuds/psychosomatic86
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'll taste the devil's tears,<br/>drink from his soul<br/>but I'll never give up you...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devil's Tears

**Author's Note:**

> My gf brought up a really awful one shot idea a while back, so of course I had to give my own, terrible input with whatever the hell this is. Written to this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9yQTGyYg0_E
> 
> Also, I never do song lyrics for notes, but these just fit... so yeah.

She is always roused by the sound of his crying; no matter how deeply asleep, (and so rarely is she ever anymore), his dislocated inhales, his pleading exhales, the salt that stains the air and burns her skin…

 

She is _always_ roused by the sound of his crying.

 

So why should tonight be any different? What horribly delicious twist of the universe’s finicky linearity should happen to dictate that, of all the nights prior and supposedly proceeding, tonight should deviate from the laughable norm she has never been accustomed to, yet accepted all the same for the sake of her brother?

 

Why tonight?

 

Because tonight she does not wake to tears, to a shivering body clutched tightly to itself as though its only protection could ever lie therein.

 

Because tonight there are no tears.

 

Because tonight, there is silence and absence so thick and velvet, it beats inside her head as a heartbeat disjointed with her own, as though someone has torn loose that very organ from another and haphazardly spliced it with the naive grey matter inside her pathetic little head and its pathetic little assumptions.

 

Because tonight, he is not there.

 

Because tonight, she cannot seem to move fast enough, to urge her feet along the grainy floorboards where the wood catches and picks at her, tearing bits of skin to stick as gentle reminders that she just  _cannot move fast enough._

 

Because tonight, she does not find him crying.

 

Or curled in on himself.

 

Because tonight, the air taints with something new, something slick and fresh and acidic when she stumbles into the bathroom.

 

Because tonight, she cannot help him.

 

_God please no._

 

She was always so adept at her crafting, so clever with needles and yarn and thread.

 

Needles and thread.

 

_I can fix this, I can help you._

 

She only thinks this as she cradles her brother’s lolling head in her lap, his scarlet blood pooling around her legs as it weeps from the gaping wounds striping his forearms.

 

_I can fix this, Dipper. I’m going to fix this._

 

She only thinks this, as her eyes fill to the brim and splash into the bathtub, polluting his blood with its all too specific chemicals, and how can ever put it back inside of him now?

 

_Oh god, Dipper, please please._

 

Because she thinks words can heal his scars, because she thought if she waited long enough, she could talk to him during the night; she thought she could fix him with her words.

 

And her lack of them, too.

 

Because all of this is her fault, and all she can do is sit in her brother’s leaking life, rocking him like a baby, murmuring into ears that will never again hear her glorious promises that she can never keep.

 

_I’ll fix this. Mom and Dad don’t have to see you, I’m going to fix this I am I am I am I am..._

 

*

Mabel Pines has never been a vain girl.

 

Despite her penchant for loud fashion and just a bit too much body glitter, she’s actually quite reserved when it comes to most of her physical appearance.

 

As it is, she finds herself fixated by the mirror when she steps, sticky and wet and dirtied and guilty, from the tub, her promises still on her lips, her lies still in her eyes.

 

She finds she cannot look away.

 

She finds she loves the mirror, because she can see him looking back at her.

 

She finds herself so similar to him in the green glass, that unsuspecting sheet of reflection.

 

She finds herself so similar, _so similar,_ but not quite exact.

 

First, her hair. She uses scissors for that, lopping off great chunks of her chestnut locks. It flutters to the floor and skirts over the tile, but collects, more or less, in one pile to be cleaned later.

 

Sufficient, she decides through her hysteria, but not quite exact.

 

Next, her forehead. She uses the scissors for that, carving great gashes of the great constellation, screwing points just to the barrier of bone for her to connect with the most perfect lines she will ever draw in her life.

 

Sufficient, she decides through her hysteria, but not quite exact.

 

Finally, her arms, because if she is ever to take her brother’s place, she has to be /exact./ She uses the blades for those.

 

Sufficient, she decides through her hysteria.

 

Exact.

 

And when she lies down with him in the bathtub, snuggling up next to him with her seeping wrists wrapped tight around him, she is so happy that she has helped him, that she did so well.

 

He will not cry anymore, and it is so wonderful to have helped her brother through his pain.

 

He will not cry anymore, and it is _wonderful._

 

He will not cry anymore, and it is all her fault.


End file.
